


Mine Right Now

by f-ing-ruthless-baz (my_mad_fatuation)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Awkward Flirting, Denial of Feelings, First Kiss, Foreplay, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Past Rape/Non-con, Trapped In Elevator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-03-20 09:02:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18989518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_mad_fatuation/pseuds/f-ing-ruthless-baz
Summary: I don’t care about soulmates. I don’t care about destiny. I don’t care about forever. I don’t care what this thing is—this Spark, this magic, this whatever the fuck—because I refuse to let it rule my life.Sometimes I think I might not even have a soulmate. If I do, I’d feel sorry for the poor bastard, at any rate. Stuck with me. Really, I’m sparing him a lifetime of misery with me by not seeking him out. He should send me a fucking thank you card.Baz wants a distraction. Simon wants a choice. But what doeswantmatter when it comes to fate?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The soulmate AU I've been working on for weeks is finally here! I'm, like, weirdly proud of this one, and while that might change soon, I'm just going to enjoy it for now.
> 
> First, I'd like to thank everyone who helped me bring this story into existence. Many thanks to the Circle of Tears ([soultoast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soultoast/pseuds/soultoast) and [The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff/pseuds/The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff)) for all the advice, suggestions, and general, um... encouragement. And thank you, [giishu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giishu), for literally keeping me sane as I worked on this, and for writing one of the best bits in the whole fic. 😂
> 
> The title comes from the song ["Mine Right Now" by Sigrid](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NbvAzJnDE2U).
> 
> Anyway, I don't want to give too much away here in the notes or tags, but it is a soulmate AU, though I hopefully managed to do a slightly less common take on the trope--though I definitely want to do a more classic one some day!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TW:** This first chapter briefly mentions one of the characters' past experience with consenting to sex under false pretences, but it is not described in detail. That being said, feel free to skip this fic, or proceed with caution, if this is an issue for you.

**BAZ**

“I thought we agreed, no kissing,” I say, turning my head before his lips can reach mine. I feel his breath on my cheek as he lets out a faint laugh.

“When did we agree to that?” he says, and his stubble lightly scrapes against my skin when he speaks. I suppose he didn’t think this was worth shaving for. I don’t blame him.

I push him back a little so I can face him again without risk of our mouths touching. “We met on Free Souls. It’s implied.”

“If you’re worried about a Spark, don’t be.” He leans in for another attempted kiss, but I turn my head again. “Come on, it’s not gonna happen now. I’ve already had mine.”

“You’ve had your Spark already?” I ask, keeping him at arm’s length. He nods. “So you just… ignored it?”

I’m intrigued as to how he managed it, honestly. I’d like to think that I would be able to ignore my Spark, if it ever happens, but I’m afraid I’ll be too weak. So I do my best to avoid it, instead.

He laughs again, sweeping some of his overgrown, blond fringe to one side—it’s as if he thinks the hair makes him look sexy and cool, and not like some type of pretentious Scandinavian emo. He’s wrong.

“Of course not,” he says, and I frown in confusion. “I have a soulmate, obviously. I just don’t see why having a soulmate should stop me from having a little fun now and then, you know?”

This time I push him all the way off of me, probably with more force than necessary, and stand. “You know that Free Souls is for people who _don’t have_ and _don’t want_ soulmates, right?”

“Yeah." He shifts into seated position on his sofa, since I knocked him back a bit when I got up. “I thought you were one of them.”

“I am,” I insist, an angry knot forming in my stomach.

“Then what’s the problem? And why are you so hung up on the no-kissing thing?”

“I’m not _hung up_. It’s just common courtesy when you use dating sites like Free Souls, all right? You should learn that.”

“I told you, I have a soulmate already,” he says, reaching for my hand to pull me towards him, but I yank it back. “There’s no risk of a Spark here.”

I pick up my jacket from where I left it draped over the arm of the sofa. “Why should I believe you? And if you really have a soulmate, why would you bring me to your place? Wouldn’t they catch us?”

“My soulmate’s out of town. It’s not an issue.”

“Well, I’m not interested in helping you cheat on someone, anyway,” I tell him, swinging on my jacket before making my way towards the front door, where my boots are lined up neatly. I’ve never been one to kick off my shoes and leave them strewn about, out of respect for people’s homes, but now I wish I had. I wish I’d tracked mud on the hardwood, too. Because fuck this guy.

Actually, I’d rather not.

He follows me over and leans casually against the wall while I bend down to get my boots on—one of the more awkward parts of trying to make a quick getaway. It’s hard to tell if he’s amused or pissed off, to be honest. “I think you’re being a little overdramatic, Sam, don’t you?”

 _Perhaps_ , I concede silently when I stand upright again. I notice that he’s moved closer now, and I hate the fact that he’s taller than I am—it doesn’t happen often. He’s probably right, though. This might be a tad too dramatic for _Sam_ , my online dating alter ego. But exiting in a huff has _Tyrannus_ _Basilton Grimm-Pitch_ written all over it.

It’s very me.

I take the stairs down once I leave his flat without another word, since I’m in too much of a strop to wait patiently for the lift. It’s only three floors, anyhow. My boots clack against the smooth concrete steps as I make my way quickly down the frigid stairwell and out into the even chillier evening air. Only now do I realize that I left my scarf upstairs, but there’s no way I’m going back for it. I pop the collar of my jacket to shield my neck from the wind as I head off towards the nearest tube station.

I don’t know why it bothers me so much, that this IKEA-looking twat has a soulmate; I don’t even believe in _soulmates_. Not really.

I believe in people having a Spark, of course—there’s no way that every person in the world, throughout history, could describe the exact same phenomenon if it weren’t real, right? Although the accounts are usually so vague that it’s hard to know if it is the exact same phenomenon every time. An electric shock, a swell of energy, the greatest brain-freeze ever—just a few of the ways it’s been described.

The fact that no one can agree on a precise definition of the occurrence is one of the reasons a Spark can be faked. One person tricking another into thinking they share a Spark isn’t a new thing, by any means, but it’s only within the past couple of decades that there have been drugs designed specifically for it. (It’s illegal to administer them on someone else, of course.) (But that doesn’t stop people.)

Supposedly, the effect doesn’t actually feel anything like a real Spark, but only somebody who’d already had theirs would know the difference. So I, obviously, couldn’t tell the difference when it happened to me.

I was stupid and eighteen, living away from home for the first time, and when the gorgeous guy I’d been crushing on in one of my advanced-level courses asked me out, I leapt at the chance.

I had no idea about the drug at the time, or that a Spark-like experience could be falsely induced in me without my knowledge. I only knew that he was beautiful and I liked spending time with him, and when he told me he really wanted to kiss me, I thought, _This must be it_. Why else would he want to kiss me so badly—why else would I want to kiss _him_ so badly—if not for destiny trying to push us together? So I let him.

I was startled by the jolt, even though I’d been pretty much expecting it. Because it wasn’t what I thought it would be. It sort of hurt. For a second I thought I might be sick. But when he pulled back a bit to look at me, eyes wide, and said, _“Did you feel that?”_ like it was the most magical thing in the world for him, I was absolutely swept away.

I thought I’d found my soulmate.

I’d walked into his room a soulmate-less virgin, and walked out completely changed. I was practically floating all the way back to my residence. I thought I was in love.

And then I stopped hearing from him. He didn’t answer my texts. He wouldn’t look at me in class. I couldn’t understand why he would do that to me; I was his _soulmate_. We were destined to be together forever. Why didn’t he get that? What was so outrageously horrible about the thought of having to spend his life with me?

Thank the gods for people with no self-awareness about the volume of their voice when they gossip in public, or I never would have overheard a couple of them discussing him one day while I was in the library—I’d normally study in the quiet areas, but they were full, so I ended up in the group study space, where obnoxiously loud chatter was apparently allowed.

I heard his name crop up in their conversation, which I’d been largely trying to ignore up to that point, when the girl warned the guy with her not to go out with _him_ , the person I believed to be my soulmate. Apparently he’d asked library guy out—recently—and library guy’s friend was trying to talk him out of it. She told him that someone she knew had gone on a date with “my soulmate” and left halfway through when he realized his drink had been tampered with.

I felt sick again.

I didn’t know how I could have let myself get fooled like that, but I swore I wouldn’t let it happen anymore.

So I haven’t kissed anyone in five years. (Can’t have a Spark without a first kiss, right?)

It made dating awkward at first, for sure. What with everyone around me eagerly trying to find their soulmates, kissing whomever they could get their hands on, seeking reassurance that they wouldn’t be alone forever. But that’s not what I want. Not anymore.

I don’t care about soulmates. I don’t care about destiny. I don’t care about forever. I don’t care what this thing is—this Spark, this magic, this whatever the fuck—because I refuse to let it rule my life.

Sometimes I think I might not even have a soulmate. If I do, I’d feel sorry for the poor bastard, at any rate. Stuck with me. Really, I’m sparing him a lifetime of misery with me by not seeking him out. He should send me a fucking thank you card.

It’s not until I’m two stops past mine that I realize I’ve been zoned out for the whole tube ride, glaring at the seat across from me, which has been empty up to this point. I don’t even immediately register the person who sits down, and end up making uncomfortable and unintentional eye contact with him. He gives me a small, awkward smile—the kind of smile that people who are too nice to scowl will give to strangers they think are weird—and I immediately look up at the sign above him announcing the next stop.

“Shit,” I mutter, loud enough that I know I must have caught his attention again, because I can practically feel his eyes on me even before I jump up from my seat. The doors close as soon as I reach them, and I curse again.

I hold onto one of the handrails, since there’s no point in returning to my seat for one stop, though I do glance at the guy who just sat down, to see if he’s been watching my tribulations with glee. I accidentally meet his gaze again—turns out he was, indeed, watching—and see his mouth pull into a sympathetic line, somewhere between a smile and a frown. My eyes flick over him, taking in his scruffy attire and the plaid scarf bunched in his hands, and I scowl. Because I’m not too nice to do that. And I refuse to allow this disheveled tosser to feel sorry for me.

It doesn’t even matter that he’s alarmingly cute.

He scowls in return and looks away. _Good_. I like pissing off nice people. I live for it. Makes me feel accomplished.

At least I have a hobby.

* * *

**SIMON**

“Uh, did you…?” I ask quietly, shyly. I’m not sure why I’m asking. I know the answer.

She looks at me apologetically as I draw my face back from hers, but she almost seems relieved. “I’m sorry, Simon, I… I didn’t feel anything.”

I smile sadly and nod. “Yeah. Same.”

“We’re still friends, right?” she adds, giving my hand a squeeze. My smile broadens.

“Of course.”

She smiles back and reaches up to give me a peck on the cheek. “I’m glad we did this. It’s… It’s good to know.”

I nod again as she backs up towards her front door and turns to unlock it. “Um, Agatha?” I say, causing her to look over her shoulder at me with concern in her eyes. “My, uh—My scarf…”

She goes a bit pink—her cheeks almost match the dyed ends of her hair—like she’s embarrassed she almost forgot to return the scarf she borrowed from me for the evening. I feel like a jerk for even mentioning it. I could always get it from her some other time. Now that we’re definitely not dating anymore, though, it just sort of seems like the thing to do.

I thank her when she hands the scarf to me and I start to twist it around my hands, desperate for _something_ to do with the nervous energy bubbling inside me.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you around,” she adds after a terribly awkward silence passes over us. “Good luck with the new job.”

“Er, yeah, thanks.” I offer another half-hearted smile before she steps inside her house, and I stand on her front step for longer than strictly necessary.

I drape the scarf around my neck, letting the ends hang down my front, once I’ve gotten half a street down and realized that it’s not actually meant as a wrap for my hands. I must be a little disoriented, because I nearly miss the entrance to the tube station.

This whole thing’s a bit depressing, is all.

I’m okay with Agatha not being my soulmate, honestly. Not quite as thankful as she appeared to be for not having a Spark with me—I’m trying not to take that personally—but I don’t even know if I really thought there would be anything there this time. I wanted it, though. I like Agatha. And I think she likes me. I think she likes talking to me and holding hands with me, anyway. But I don’t know if she actually wanted to kiss me.

I’m the one who kept pushing for it, saying we should try. I thought it would be a cute story, or something. If, after being friends for several years, it turned out we were actually soulmates. She even agreed to date me. But every time I suggested we kiss, she’d say we should wait. Until tonight, of course.

It’s commonly believed that a pair’s Spark will be stronger if there’s a solid emotional bond formed first. I’m not really sure why it matters, other than it supposedly feels pretty cool, but I don’t mind waiting. I like getting to know someone. I like trying to picture us together forever. It’s like some childish part of me believes that I could maybe influence it; if I visualize myself as someone’s soulmate, I can make it happen. It’s ridiculous, of course, but I sort of like the idea that I have a choice.

 _“You always have a choice, Simon,”_ my best friend, Penny, often tells me. (I once tried to see if I could visualize her and me as soulmates, but I couldn’t picture anything other than her laughing at me for even considering it.)

I know she doesn’t mean I get to choose who to have a Spark with. That’s just fate or magic or biology—whatever. But I get to choose what I do with my Spark. A relationship isn’t smooth-sailing all the way just because the pair are soulmates. It involves a commitment, and that commitment is a choice. Every day, it’s a choice to be with that person.

Still, I can’t imagine settling down with anyone other than my soulmate. Because it hurts to kiss someone I want so badly, only to feel nothing. Anticlimactic to say the least. I wouldn’t know how to continue from there.

I do wonder sometimes, though, if maybe I missed my soulmate. Maybe I romanticized the notion so much that I closed off my chance with them. I didn’t go to many “soulmate parties” as a teen, like most of my peers did. I wasn’t sure how kissing everyone in the room would be the most efficient method of finding my soulmate. Though maybe I just didn’t like the idea of having my Spark surrounded by several dozen drunk classmates cheering me on.

It just seems like a personal thing, my Spark moment. I’d rather not be public about it. In fact, the only reason I kissed Agatha in front of her house, where a nosy neighbour could have seen us, is because I didn’t really believe she would be my soulmate. Not that I would mind ending up with her. But I want to _want_ my soulmate, rather than _tolerate_ them.

Maybe I’m not supposed to want them until I know, though. Maybe I won’t even be attracted to them until we share a Spark. It’s not a cheery thought, but one that crosses my mind every once in a while. Maybe I’ve gotta kiss a lot of metaphorical frogs.

I wrinkle my nose at the thought. I don’t really have any interest in kissing frogs, no matter how metaphorical.

An older woman sitting near me asks if I’m all right—probably having noticed my face-twitching—and I assure her I’m fine just as the doors open at my transfer point. I didn’t even realize we were here already, and if that woman hadn’t said anything, I might have just passed my stop in a daze.

I thank her as I hurry out the doors and then make my way to the other platform, for the second leg of my journey. My rushing around has left me warm, so I take off my scarf to feel the cool air of the station on the back of my neck. I don’t know why I even bothered taking this back from Agatha; I’m always overheating anyway.

I enjoy the breeze as my next train pulls into the platform, and I’m glad to find the car is relatively empty. I hate feeling crowded, especially when I’m hot. I take a seat in the first one I see, alternately scrunching up my scarf in my hands and pulling it taut, absent-mindedly, until I notice some guy staring at me.

Well, I’m not sure if he’s staring at me, exactly. He might just be staring off into space, which just happens to be the space I’m now in. His eyes seem to focus on me within a second or two, though, and he looks a bit startled—and annoyed—so I’m guessing he had indeed been zoned out. I offer a polite smile, like, _Hey, we’ve all been there_. But his eyes quickly snap up to the something above me and his face takes on a slightly panicked expression.

“Shit,” he mutters, and I watch him spring out of his seat and make a break for the closing doors.

I probably shouldn’t be staring like this, but he’s literally the only thing moving in this car, so it’s inevitably drawing my attention. Besides, he’s rather striking to look at, dressed almost all in black, except for a deep red shirt visible under his trench coat. With his sharp, angular face and dark, swept back hair—he looks like a fucking model.

He looks like he knows it, too.

When he glances over at me, once the doors have closed, it’s almost like he knew I’d be staring. Like he was expecting it. I try to play it off as if I’m just concerned about him missing his stop, offering him a look of sympathy, but he gives me a disdainful once-over and scowls.

I make a point not to look back at him again until he gets off at the next stop. I watch him head straight across the platform to the train going the other way, and I chuckle to myself when those doors close on him too, leaving him behind on the platform.

Serves him right, the arrogant prick.

* * *

**BAZ**

Well. This is unexpected.

I stop in the doorway to my cubicle and clear my throat. “Can I help you with something?” I ask pointedly, trying my best not to stare at the man currently on all fours under my desk with his backside in the air, like some sort of fucked up wildlife mating ritual.

“Nah,” he says, as if I’m the intruder here. At least he has the courtesy to lower his rear end for a moment while he finishes up whatever it is he’s doing, though he doesn’t come out from the desk, so his voice is a bit muffled. “I’m from Tech Support; _I’m_ supposed to help _you_.”

He must be new—or an impostor—because I don’t recognize his voice. Plus, I know for a fact that none of the guys from Tech Support look this good from behind. Unfortunately.

Before I can tell him that I didn’t call for Tech Support, and that he can’t just march into my cubicle and start manhandling my computer while I’m on my lunch break, he emerges from under the desk and brushes off his wrinkled trousers as he stands. He looks up at me with a grin on his face, but it falters as soon as our eyes meet.

He’s alarmingly cute.

Still.

“What are you doing here?” I spit, and I wonder for a second if he’s been stalking me. The look on his face, however, tells me he’s just as surprised to see me here, so I doubt it. He’s scowling again too. Brilliant.

“I was told to replace all the keyboards in this department during everyone’s lunch break.”

I glance past him towards my desk to see that there is, in fact, a new keyboard sitting there, along with my old one shoved to one side. I briefly consider arguing that I was never told about this, but I realize there’s a good chance the office manager sent out an email and I just ignored it. Her messages are so infrequently useful that it just doesn’t seem worth it, most days.

“Very well,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him as I step aside from the entrance to my cubicle so he can get past me.

He stares at me for a second, like he’s not sure what I’m trying to tell him—namely, _get the fuck out_ —before he seems to get the memo. When he does, he scoops up my old keyboard and hastily wraps its own cord around it, but stops right in front of me on his way out.

“You know, I decided I’d give you the benefit of the doubt if I ever saw you again, figuring you were probably having a bit of a rough night on the tube, what with missing your stop and everything,” he says, completely unprovoked, “but I guess you’re just a miserable sod all the time, aren’t you?”

“That’s quite a shrewd observation. I’m impressed.” I flash him a smirk, to show that he can’t ruffle my feathers, and he tightens his grip on the keyboard in his hands, causing the plastic to creak from the added strain. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some work to do.”

“Right, yeah,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Gotta put those numbers in those columns, or else the world will end.”

“It may not be as dignified as _crawling around under people’s desks_ , but we can’t all be heroes, can we?”

The plastic creaks again, and he glowers at me a moment longer before clomping out of my workspace. I think I hear him mutter, _“Prick,”_ under his breath as he leaves.

I stride over to my desk and settle into my chair—the seat height feels a little off; I wonder if he messed with it while he was in here—taking a moment to examine the new keyboard. The keys are much shallower than my old one, and when I test a few of them out, they are far quieter. Even slamming them down with more force than I would ever normally use while typing, the sound is rather dampened. No more _clack, clack, clack_.

I hate new things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Is that a cute enough meet for ya??_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon makes a couple new friends at work--maybe one-and-a-half friends. Because Baz would never admit to being a whole one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to point out that Trixie and Keris make an appearance in this story (more so Trixie) because I wanted a wlw couple, so I basically just used their names as a nod to canon, but nothing else about them is based on their characters, necessarily. So if you're thinking, _"Trixie is nothing like that,"_ you're probably absolutely right.

**SIMON**

“How’s it looking now?”

I tear my eyes away from the monitor and they land briefly on an exposed knee to my left before I look up at the woman— _Trisha_ , she told me—sitting on the desk. “Er, good, yeah,” I say with a nod, and quickly return my attention to the computer so she won’t see me blushing. “I’ve just gotta reinstall this driver and you should be all set.”

The desk sways a little as she kicks her legs out in front of her, swinging them back and forth next to me. I’m almost worried she’ll end up hitting me in the arm, but she doesn’t. I suspect she’s bored, since I’ve been here nearly half an hour, but her behaviour’s still somewhat surprising. I don’t know how old she is—older than me, I’m sure. Maybe thirty-ish. But she doesn’t act very mature at all. She’s dressed in rather conservative workwear—except for the fact that her skirt is riding up her legs with each kick—but she’s got turquoise streaks in her pulled-back hair, and I get the impression she’d much rather be wearing jeans and a t-shirt, like I am. (One of the perks of working in Tech Support.)

“Cool,” she says, and then leans so far forward I’m afraid she’ll fall right off the desk. “Oi, Baz!”

When I look over my shoulder, I see that she’s talking to someone who must have been walking by her cubicle. He takes a step inside, but freezes when our eyes meet.

It’s _him_. Of course.

I should have expected this, considering Trisha called out his name, but I didn’t put two and two together in time to realize that _Basilton Grimm-Pitch_ —the pretentious name on his cubicle—is _Baz_. It’s hard to imagine him going by such a casual nickname, considering he always looks rather dignified and proper.

I don’t really know what his problem is with me, anyway, but he doesn’t look pleased that I’m here. Any time I’ve run into him over the past few days here—which has been quite frequently—he just glares at me and stalks off, if he can. But I suppose he can’t walk away this time.

“Yes?” he says, shifting his focus off me.

“Wanna get lunch with me?” Trisha asks him with a smile that seems far friendlier than this guy deserves.

I turn back to the computer abruptly, since I’d really prefer not to be witness to their flirting, or whatever the hell is happening now.

“Are you buying?” I hear him reply, a playfulness in his voice that’s been nonexistent in any of my brief interactions with him.

She snorts and leans back on her hands, kicking her legs out again. “If anything, I think you owe me, after last time.”

“I think not.”

Now I’m curious what happened last time, but I don’t want them to know that I’ve been eavesdropping—though is it really considered eavesdropping when I’m right here? In any case, I do my best to pretend to ignore them while I finish up my work, until Trisha bumps the armrest of my chair with her leg. Intentionally.

“You coming, Simon?” she asks when I look back up at her in surprise.

“Um, what?”

She slides off her desk and tugs down on the hem of her skirt where it had ridden up even further. “Lunch. Do you wanna come with us?”

“Oh, er, I dunno, I—” My hand flies up to scratch the back of my neck as I lower my head to hide my embarrassment. I’m not sure why she would invite me on their lunch date—I guess that means it’s not a date. It’s still awkward, though.

“Look at him, Trix. You probably flustered him when you flashed your knickers,” the guy— _Baz_ —scoffs, and I feel my face heat up even more.

“Come off it,” she says with a laugh, continuing to smooth out her skirt.

“I didn’t see anything, I swear!” I add, though I certainly am a bit flustered now. “I just—I don’t want to intrude on your lunch, or—”

“No intrusion whatsoever,” she says, nudging me with her elbow as she bends down to unlock the bottom desk drawer next to me, presumably to get her bag.

I glance over at him—at Baz—and find that he’s staring at me, not her. And I’m not the one in the tight skirt here. _Interesting_.

“All right, then,” I say to her, without taking my eyes off him. His menacing glare intensifies. “I’d love to.”

* * *

**BAZ**

“Here, Simon, you can have the rest of these,” Trix says as she slides her half-empty plate of chips over to Snow—yes, his name is _Simon Snow_ , according to his email address, which is not even the most ridiculous thing about him—and his eyes widen at the sight.

“Really?” he asks, and happily dives in when she tells him to go for it.

He looks like the kind of guy that women are constantly trying to feed. It’s not that he looks malnourished—far from it. He’s broad-shouldered and sturdy-looking, like a handyman that some desperate housewife might ply with food in order to give him an excuse to stay a little longer after installing new cabinets in the kitchen. Perhaps.

Not that I’ve ever given it any thought.

“Well,” Trix adds, picking up her mobile off the table to check something, “I need to get back early to finish something I promised for Ashley, so I’ve gotta run now.” Her chair scrapes on the linoleum floor as she gets up, and I start to follow suit, but she pushes down on my shoulder to keep me from standing, too. “You can stay, it’s fine.”

“But—”

“It’ll give you two a chance to get to know each other, yeah?” She smiles at Snow and then flashes me a conniving smirk. In return, I glare at her until she walks away.

I think she’s plotting and I don’t care for it.

Besides, I don’t need to get to know Snow any better than I already do. I know far too much about him already. From the way he dresses to the way he talks and the way he eats; he’s undoubtedly an oaf. But it’s almost impressive how he can switch so quickly between gazing at Trix—his _baby blue_ s twinkling with awe—and glaring daggers at me. While his glare may have become less murderous towards me over the course of lunch, though, it’s clear that he still doesn’t trust me. And rightly so.

He watches Trix over his shoulder as she leaves and then turns his attention me, eyes wide again. This time I think it’s panic. Maybe he’s afraid of me. _Cute_.

The idea that he’s probably more uncomfortable with this turn of events than I am puts me at ease a little, though I pick at the label on my water-bottle with my fingernail, anyway, since I don’t know what else to do. Make conversation with him? I think not.

When he keeps glancing back over his shoulder between each chip that he eats, as we sit in stony silence, I nearly find myself feeling sorry for him. If he’s hoping for her to come back and rescue him, he’s out of luck. At least this is mildly amusing, watching him squirm like this.

It does allow me to keep my eye on him for longer than usual, with the way he’s looking around at everything but me. I’ve never been able to watch him from this close range before. He’s got more freckles than I realized. Some are moles, actually. There are a few prominent ones on his cheek—I have the strangest urge to lean forward and kiss one of them, but I resist. Thankfully.

He turns back to face me so suddenly that for a second I worry I’ve said something about his moles out loud, but he looks like he’s the one who’s been caught staring. I shift my attention to the shredded label on my water bottle and try to channel an air of cool dispassion instead of whatever it is that’s working its way up my throat.

It’s not _jealousy_ , though. I’m not jealous that he’s wishing _she_ were here instead of me. I wish she were here instead of me, too, to be honest.

My jaw is clenched for unrelated reasons.

“I feel it only right to tell you, you’re barking up the wrong tree,” I snap, surprising us both, judging by the look on his face.

He blinks at me, dumbfounded, as though he can’t believe I noticed his rather obvious schoolboy crush on the only woman in our office under the age of fifty. “What?”

I nod towards the exit, where Trix had just left, and he turns to take another glance. His face is a shade redder when he looks back at me.

“You mean… you two are…?” he asks.

I involuntarily snort a laugh. It seems to be a much needed release for the tension in my chest, anyway. “I’m saying she’s already met her soulmate.”

“Oh…”

“Yes, so you can spare yourself the effort of trying to get in her pants. I doubt her wife would appreciate it.”

“I—I wasn’t—I don’t even—” he blusters, getting more flushed by the second. “I’m not trying to get in anyone’s pants, all right?”

If I’d known it was so easy to get this guy riled up, I’d have spent less time avoiding him lately. This is far too entertaining.

“Message received, loud and clear,” I say, leaning back in my chair with a smirk. “You’re a virgin. Got it.”

He’s much redder now. _Interesting_.

“I—I’m not a—Look, it’s none of your business anyway, but I’m not,” he says, staring down at his food like it will somehow get him out of this situation.

I return to picking at the label, pinching my lips shut for a moment to keep from laughing. “Not saving yourself for your soulmate, Snow?”

“How do you know I haven’t already got one?” He narrows his eyes at me. “And how do you know my last name?”

“Your work username. _snow.simon_ ,” I tell him, though I quickly realize there’s not really any good reason for me to remember that, considering I direct my Tech Support emails to _helpdesk_. But I’ve been CC’d on enough messages alongside him to have seen the username—and he’s the only Simon in Tech Support. I checked. “But are you saying you _do_ have a soulmate?”

He scowls at me yet again, which, I hate to say, is starting to work for me. (I’m clearly disturbed.) “Everyone _has_ a soulmate, technically…” So that’s a no.

“Who’s yours, then?”

“I don’t… I don’t know yet,” he says, lowering his gaze again. I almost wonder if he’s about to cry—I certainly didn’t mean to take it _that_ far—but when he looks back up at me, he smiles. I think it’s a spiteful one. “But there’s someone out there for me, I’m sure.”

“Are you?” I ask, with a sincerity I did not intend.

“You’re not?” His forehead creases with concern, like _he’s_ the one feeling sorry for _me_ now. _Terrific._

“Well, yes, _everyone technically has a soulmate_. But that doesn’t guarantee you’ll find them, now, does it?” _I might be a monster_ , I think when I see the hurt look on his face. Perhaps I should try kicking puppies next. “I mean, what if they died in an accident already? What if they’re on the other side of the world? What if they don’t want a soulmate at all?”

Now he just looks perplexed. “Why would someone not want a soulmate?”

When I first saw him, I’d assumed he was a similar age to me—probably early-to-mid twenties, or so—but some of the things he says make him sound like an idealistic child. Somehow he made it this far in life without getting his spirit broken. How nice for him.

“Reasons,” I say tersely, and he snorts, too.

“Is that really your answer? _‘Because reasons’_?”

“What, did you want my life story?”

His expression shifts again, and he sits up straighter. “I—I didn’t know you meant that _you_ don’t want… Sorry.”

My eyebrows flick up as I look back down at the water bottle in front of me, though the label is practically falling off it now. I can feel his gaze on me still, so I try not to let my discomfort show. But the thought of him judging me for my _lifestyle choices_ —the _no soulmate_ thing, I mean—is rather unsettling.

“Do you… Did something happen?” he asks, hesitation in his voice.

I snap my eyes up to meet his again, without lifting my head. “I don’t see why that should be of any concern to you.”

“I dunno, just seems a bit sad, I guess—Er, not that I think _you’re_ sad, just… I thought maybe—I mean, it’s none of my business, you’re right.” He’s shaking his head and chuckling nervously and ruffling his hand through his hair…

I want nothing more, at this moment, than to reach across the table and feel those soft, bronze curls myself. Instead I close my fist around the bottle in my hand, causing the plastic to crunch a little.

Thank goodness he’s straight—presumably, if the blush on his face when Trix’s legs were next to his head is anything to go by—because the last thing I need is a handsome _and_ gay soulmate-seeker crawling under my desk. (Though I suppose he’s only done that the once.)

“Well, I should probably get back to work,” I say as I push my chair back so I can stand. “Numbers in columns, saving the world, et cetera.”

He looks up and smiles a little at my joke, then rises to his feet as well. “I’ll head back with you,” he says, shoving one last chip into his mouth before following me when I head for the exit. “And maybe on the way you can explain to me what it is that you actually do, because I still don’t get it.”

“I’m not sure that someone of your intellect ever could, Snow.” I take a sidelong glance at him as he catches up to me, expecting to see an indignant scowl on his face. Instead he’s grinning.

“Try me.”

* * *

**SIMON**

I guess I was sorta wrong about Trisha—actually, she told me I can call her _Trixie_ , now that she’s declared us friends. Apparently all it takes to become her friend is to fix her computer twice. Which is fine by me, because, I didn’t have any work friends before this. And now I have two.

Well, one and a half, maybe. (Not sure if Baz counts as a full friend yet. Sometimes I think he enjoys my misery a little _too_ much.)

But I was wrong when I thought she’d prefer to wear a t-shirt and jeans; it turns out she really likes to go full tilt with her outfits, when she has the chance. She’s wearing a red polka dot dress that shows off the tattoos along her collarbones, and heavy black eyeliner—she looks like punk fifties housewife or something. _Is that even a thing?_

Her wife, Keris, seems cool in a more effortless way—definitely more the t-shirt and jeans type—but I suppose they balance each other out pretty well. I’ve met her a few times, over the past several weeks, since she sometimes picks up Trixie from work. This is the first time I’ve actually hung out with both of them, though. It’s pretty fun.

I don’t really go to _bars_ at all—I’m more likely to grab a pint at the pub when I want to go out for a drink with a friend—but Trixie insisted I come along for _Baz’s_ _Birthday Bash_ , as she called it. I was surprised to hear that Baz even wanted a party for his birthday, but then I learned that he hated the idea. So of course I had to come. (Maybe I also enjoy his misery a little too much, sometimes.)

It’s just the four of us here tonight, and when I asked Baz if any more of his friends were coming, he told me that all his friends have better taste than this. I noted that he didn’t say all his _other_ friends, because I don’t think he’d ever admit to Trixie and me that he actually enjoys our company in the slightest. But I know that’s a lie.

I mean, I think it is.

“All right, who’s making a toast, then?” Trixie says, raising her glass once our first round of drinks arrives.

“No toast.” Baz lifts his own glass to his lips, but she pulls his arm back down so quickly that it spills a little. “For fuck’s sake, Trix,” he grumbles, inspecting his clothes for any that may have gotten on him. “If you ruined this shirt, I swear—”

“You look fine to me,” I assure him, but when he looks over and cocks an eyebrow at me, I realize how that might have sounded. I don’t correct myself.

His expression shifts to one of begrudging amusement when I just smile back at him, instead of getting worked up over a possible misunderstanding. Because, really, what’s the point? He knows what I meant. And even if he did take it a different way, he wouldn’t exactly be _wrong_.

He does look fine right now. He always does, of course, but tonight especially. Like Trixie, I’ve only ever seen him in his workwear; apparently he also likes to dress a bit flashier than I expected when _out on the town_ , or whatever. He’s wearing a fitted black shirt under a red blazer with huge flowers all over it, and I feel a bit underdressed next to him.

I did put a little effort in, considering it’s _Baz’s Birthday Bash_ —my shirt has buttons and everything. I had to roll up the sleeves, because I don’t like feeling constricted around my wrists, though. I’d thought my jeans were nice; they’re dark, anyway. I mean, I don’t usually wear these ones, since they’re a bit _snug_ , but… It’s a special occasion, right?

“If no one else is gonna do it, I guess I’ll have to,” Trixie adds, and then clears her throat until we all lift our glasses as well. “It is upon this glorious occasion that we do celebrate the birth of none other than Tyrann—”

“Don’t,” Baz snaps at her, though he still looks like he’s trying not to smile. (I wonder how much energy he expends, keeping his facial muscles engaged like that, at all times, just to keep his emotions from showing.)

“ _Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch_ ,” she continues, louder. A couple at a nearby table glance over at us. “The Earth has been blessed with his presence for twenty-four wondrous years, and we hope to be blessed for twenty-four more. At which point we can take him or leave him. Whatever.”

“Cheers to that,” he says, and downs nearly half his drink in one go.

“So, how’s it feel to be twenty-four, _Tyrannus_?” I ask after taking a sip of mine. I grin at him, because I’m fully aware how much he hates the use of his first name. (I’ve never been bold enough to use it myself, though.) (This should be interesting.)

He glances at me, eyes narrowed, without turning his head my way. “My birthday’s not until tomorrow, technically,” he says, blowing right past the whole _Tyrannus_ thing. I’d think he was in a particularly foul mood today if it weren’t for the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Ask me again in a few hours.”

I chuckle and take a larger gulp of my drink, because I seem to be behind everyone else already. My eyes wander a bit, trying to get a better sense of this place—I just walked in and sat down with Trixie and Keris without taking much of a look around—and a realization dawns on me. When I return my attention to our table, I see Trixie grasp her wife’s hand in the space between them, and place a kiss on the back of it while Keris laughs.

“Is this a gay bar?” I ask. It’s far more blunt than I’d intended, but it just sort of spurted out of me.

The other three at the table all look at me at once, and I think this might be a good time for the ground to swallow me up. But then Keris starts laughing, and Trixie joins shortly after. I glance over at Baz, who seems to be struggling to keep up his cool act, too.

“Did you just figure that out?” he says, unable to contain his smirk any longer.

“Er—I didn’t, um—it just never occurred to me.” I laugh, too. Nervously. Awkwardly. _Feeling-like-an-idiot-ly_. “It’s cool, though.”

Baz picks up his glass again as I stare into mine, hoping it’s too dark in here for him to tell my face is probably flaring up right now. “If you’re worried about getting hit on by a bloke, you can relax, Snow,” he says after taking another drink. “Most people come here with their soulmates. Nobody’s looking to meet anyone. Nobody’s single here.”

“You’re here. You’re single,” I point out.

“I’m also not looking to meet anyone.”

“Um, yeah. Right, yeah.” I scratch my head as I let out another small chuckle. “I wasn’t worried, anyway. About getting hit on, I mean.”

“No?” Keris says, eyeing me over her glass. “I probably would be, if I were you.” She nearly spills some of her own drink when Trixie elbows her, and she laughs again. “What? I’m just saying he’s fit, yeah? Look at him.”

I shake my head and take another drink. I don’t know how to explain that I didn’t mean it that way.

I’m not worried about a bloke hitting on me, because I wouldn’t mind if he did. One bloke in particular, I suppose.

I sneak a look at Baz again. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered it over the past few weeks. I’m not sure when the shift occurred, exactly. The moment when my thoughts about him switched from, _“He’s an attractive guy,”_ to, _“I’m attracted to him.”_ (It might have been around the time he first called me Simon.) (He still swears he never did.)

He’s hard for me to read, though. Most of the time, he gives off the impression that he can’t stand me—or acts like it, at least. But there are moments… Those moments where I almost think… Maybe…

And then there are those times when I have no fucking clue. Like right now, while he twists his glass around on the table, like he’s trying to seem bored at his own Birthday Bash. Emphasis on _trying_.

After taking another swig of my drink, I lean towards Baz to throw my arm over his shoulder. He flinches, but doesn’t make any attempt to push me away.

“I can just pretend you’re my soulmate, if anyone tries, right?” I joke, and his jaw tenses up. He’s got a nice jaw, I’ve noticed. I’m tempted to rub my thumb over the hinge of it to make him relax, though. It’s not good for him to be so tense all the time.

Almost as if I willed it, his jaw unclenches a little, and I realize he’s smirking at me. He’s doing that thing with his eyebrow, too. Raising just the one. I can never seem to do that. He’s really good at it. I wonder if he practices.

I expect him to tell me to piss off, anyway. I don’t expect him to reach up and run his fingers through my hair. But he does.

_What the fuck?_

“Oh, absolutely,” he says, leaning in towards my ear slightly, his voice low—but certainly loud enough for Trixie and Keris to hear him. “I’m always willing to lend a helping hand.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was supposed to sound suggestive.

And I don’t know better.

He looks smug, though. He thinks he’s winning. So instead of backing off, I just smile back.

“Thanks, love,” I say, and I think I see his face twitch for a second.

This feels like the weirdest game of Chicken ever, but he soon leans back in his chair and picks up his (nearly-empty) glass again. “Any time,” he mutters, and I’m not sure if this means I win.

I’m not sure if I even wanted to win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want an idea of what Baz's blazer looks like, the one he wears for his Birthday Bash, try [googling "harry styles red floral suit"](https://www.google.com/search?q=harry+styles+red+floral+suit&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwi9lsn5zcDiAhUjn-AKHfC8DvMQ_AUIDigB&biw=1280&bih=618&dpr=2), because that's how I pictured it. Apparently it's controversial? (I don't know anything, tbh.) I like it, so whatever. Floral suits for all!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz finds Simon terribly distracting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rather short and sweet--well, not _sweet_ , necessarily, but short. It's only Baz's POV this time, but I promise the scenes do alternate POV, so it'll be Simon's next. Fear not!

**BAZ**

“Baz. _Baz_. Baaaaaaz.” Snow’s just entered my workspace and is already pestering me, but I ignore him, since I’d prefer to get this task done before I leave for the day. “ _Tyrannus_.”

I shoot him a disdainful glare and he laughs. The muscles in his forearms flex as he pushes down on the end of my desk with both hands, leaning against it. It’s rather distracting.

“What do you want, Snow?” I snap, swiftly turning my attention back to my computer. I feel the desk strain a little as he shifts his weight to one arm, but I don’t dare take another look at him or I’ll never get this shit done.

“You doing anything now?” he asks.

“I’m working.” I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing anymore, though; I can’t seem to focus on the numbers in front of me when he’s _still here_. When I can’t stop thinking about how he put his arm around me last weekend and flashed me that idiotic grin of his.

I still don’t know what possessed me to play along with it, running my hand through his soft curls and leaning in to speak to him like that. Well, I suspect the pre-drinking I did at my flat beforehand may have been a contributing factor. It felt nice, though, the weight of his arm on my shoulder. The warmth radiating off him. It’s a good thing I’m not an impulsive person, or I just might have given in and kissed that mole below his ear, too…

“It’s after five,” he says, and I glance at the clock for the first time in over an hour. _How did that happen?_ “And it’s Friday.”

“Your point is?”

“Who works late on a Friday?”

I stare at the highlighted cell on the screen and can’t for the life of me remember what the fuck I’m supposed to put there. “People with important work to do,” I say, as I type _WHAT THE FUCK_ in the space. Thankfully, I don’t think he can read off my monitor from where he’s standing. I just need to look busy until he goes away.

“Right, well,” he adds, standing upright—the desk shifts slightly when he stops leaning on it. “I just wondered if you fancied grabbing a pint.”

I finally give in and look at him again, eyeing him sidelong. Since when is he the one who orchestrates these infernal _pub nights_? Trix has always been the social leader of the pack; Snow’s just a follower—like I am, I suppose. It’s strange to see him take initiative on anything. But I’m not entirely sure that I mind.

Still, I can’t just leap at every opportunity to spend time with him, or he might start to suspect that I don’t find his company nearly as miserable as I ought to. (Though after my behaviour last weekend, I’m sure he already does.)

I shake my head and stare at the still-highlighted _WHAT THE FUCK_ in my spreadsheet. “I have to finish this,” I tell him, even though I’m not sure how I’ll get anything else done today. _I wonder if he smells like cinnamon again today,_ I think. _Jesus Christ_.

“How long?”

“What?”

“How long is it gonna take?”

“Don’t know.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, he just stands there. Most likely staring at me. (I don’t let myself check.)

“Well, just swing ‘round the pub once you’re done, alright?” he finally adds. “You look like you could use a drink.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re all tense and stuff,” he says with a shrug, and then reaches over and squeezes my shoulder before giving me a playful shove. (Is this touchy-feely thing going to become a trend?) “It’s the weekend, mate.”

“Fine, fine,” I grumble as I push his hand away. “I’ll finish this up and meet you there in a half hour? Will that be sufficient to get you off my case?”

“Yeah.” He’s grinning like an idiot again. “For now.”

“Good. Then piss off.”

He laughs as he backs out of my cubicle, and I’m left to deal with the incomprehensible task before me. It takes me a couple of minutes to get my mind back into the headspace for working, but even so, I finish up in under twenty. Since the pub’s only a five-minute walk from here, I take my time closing everything down for the evening. The last thing I want is to show up _early_ , lest he think I’m eager to spend the next hour listening to him talk about _Doctor Who_ with Trix.

In the end, I show up several fashionable minutes later than I told him, just because I can. But when I get to the pub, I’m surprised to find him sitting in a booth alone, with a quarter of a pint left in front of him as he scrolls on his phone like he’s bored out of his mind.

“Did Trix leave already?” I ask when I reach his table.

He looks up at me, seemingly startled. “Oh, er, no, I—She didn’t come,” he says.

“Typical.” I let out a disgruntled sigh as I slip off my jacket. It’d probably be a better idea to leave now, honestly, rather than attempt to make conversation with Snow on my own, but I’m already here and he was right; I really could use a drink.

“Did she let you know she wasn’t coming, or have you just been stood up?” I add, sliding into the bench opposite him.

“I haven’t been stood up.” He looks down at his pint, like he’s embarrassed. “I didn’t even ask her.”

I snort a derisive laugh. “Well, that might explain why she’s not here, then.”

“No, I mean,”—he looks back up at me—“I only asked you.” He’s smiling a little now. It’s not his idiotic grin this time; it’s much subtler than that. It’s much subtler than _him_.

I try not to let myself read too much into it. “ _Why?_ ”

He shrugs. “Thought we could talk or something. You’re not very chatty when Trixie’s here, most of the time, so I thought maybe it’d be easier for you if it’s just us blokes,” he says, his usual grin creeping in.

“Have you considered that maybe _you’re_ the problem, not her?” I expect him to scowl at that. To get defensive and start blustering. But he just shrugs again and takes a long drink from his pint glass.

“Right, well,” he says, setting down the empty glass with a _clunk_ , “I’ll get us a round, then. Usual?”

I watch him shuffle out of his side of the booth and stand, looking to me for some sort of confirmation before he goes up to the bar. His reaction has caught me off-guard, but I nod anyway.

As soon as he walks away, I run my hands through my hair to loosen it up a bit. I always keep it swept back for work—or tied up, on occasion—but I know it looks better when I mess it up a little. I often do this when I don’t have a chance to stop by my flat after work before meeting up with someone—although I usually do it in front of a mirror, since there’s a fine line between _gently_ _tousled_ and _rat’s nest_.

The fact I’m doing it now, though, is ridiculous. This isn’t a _date_ , obviously. I don’t need to impress Snow; not that my gently tousled hair would impress him, at any rate.

I stop fussing with it long enough to take out my mobile, so I can at least make it seem as though I had something better to do than purposefully muss my own hair. I do turn on the front-facing camera, however, just to be sure it isn’t doing something ridiculous. (Good thing, too, because I manage to catch a rogue strand hanging awkwardly across my forehead.)

“You taking a selfie, Baz?”

I nearly drop my mobile on the table when Snow sneaks up on me—perhaps he wasn’t actually _sneaking_ , but I’m startled, nonetheless. “I was checking my email,” I tell him as coolly as I can, while he sets both pints down and slides back into his seat.

“From that angle?” He looks positively delighted to have caught me using my phone camera on myself, but I ignore him and pull my pint towards me to take a sip.

“Your hair looks good, by the way,” he adds, and I narrowly avoid choking on my drink.

I have to set down my glass as I cough a couple times, while he laughs and picks up his own. I lower my head as I lean on the table, holding the front of my hair like it’s about to fall out. _Pull it together, Baz._

“Can I ask you something?” he asks after guzzling some of his ale.

I recline in my seat to try and salvage some air of nonchalance as I tap my fingers on the side of my glass absently. “I don’t know, _can_ you?”

“Don’t be a dick,” he replies, but there’s no malice to his words. His smile fades a little, though, and he looks down at his pint. “I was just—I was wondering…”

“Yes?”

His eyes land on mine again and I suppress my instinct to look away. “Do you really not want to find your soulmate at all?” (Is this why he wanted it to be _‘just us blokes’_ tonight? To ask invasively personal questions?)

I finally break eye contact with him and grab my pint again. “What do you care, Snow?”

“I dunno. Just, it sounds kinda lonely, is all, and I thought maybe I could understand better if—”

“I don’t give a shit if you understand or not. It’s my life; I don’t see how it should affect you at all.”

He looks down sheepishly. “You’re right, yeah. Sorry, I—I just can’t imagine… I mean, I guess I spend a lot of time thinking about it. About my soulmate, I mean. If I’m ever going to meet them.”

“I’m sure you will,” I tell him with a dismissive wave of my hand. I’d really rather not hear him wax poetic about his future soulmate and all the blue-eyed babies they’ll have, or whatever it is that saccharine romantics think about.

“It’s just, sometimes I—I wonder…” He scrubs his hand through his mop of hair. “Just, it’d be nice to not have to worry about it, you know? To just… be with whoever I want, when I want.” I think he’s blushing again, for Christ’s sake. (I hate that it’s such a good look on him.)

I take another drink, so as not to seem too invested in this conversation. “What’s stopping you, then?”

“I dunno, fate?” He shrugs again. “I mean, what if I want to stay with someone who’s not my soulmate? We’d always know that there was someone better for each of us out there, and some day we'd find them, and… It can’t last forever, can it?”

“Nothing lasts forever,” I say bluntly. “This whole _‘eternal soulmates’_ idea is bullshit, and people buy into it because it’s nice and easy and comforting.”

“Sounds like you don’t, then.” He chuckles and downs more of his pint. “Fair enough, I guess.”

“Hm. Indeed.” I refuse to be the one to look away this time, when our eyes meet, but I can’t stop my gaze from briefly flitting to his mouth when he licks his lips. _I wonder what he tastes like._

Fuck, that’s not something I should be wondering.

“So, um, do you…” he begins, glancing down at the table for a moment. “Do you, like… not date at all, then?”

“You’re asking me if I _date_?” I raise an eyebrow at him as I reach for my glass again.

“Er… Yeah, I suppose.”

After a long draught of my pint, I set it down delicately and contemplate it while I decide how to answer his question. “In the traditional sense? No, not really,” I say, looking back at him. “I don’t spend time with someone, trying to get to know them, or develop some sort of rapport with them. I just like a distraction now and then.”

“Distraction?” He frowns at me with a look of curiosity. _Oaf_.

“Yes, Snow. A _distraction_ ,” I say, but he still doesn’t seem to get it. “ A one-night-stand. A hookup. A shag. What have you.”

“Oh,” he says quietly, taking a sip of his ale. I can see him turning red behind his glass, even before he sets it down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Um, so… What, uh—Why do you need a distraction sometimes?”

“Does it matter?” I stare down at my glass on the table as I run my thumb over the etched logo mindlessly. “We all have things we’d rather not think about, every once in a while,” I add, looking back up at him. “Don’t you ever need a distraction?”

He hasn’t touched his glass again, but I watch him swallow laboriously nonetheless. With his long neck and pronounced Adam’s apple, it’s quite a spectacle. The thought of licking a stripe all the way up his neck and then biting the edge of his jaw crosses my mind, but I quickly shake it off before he can catch me leering at his throat.

“I dunno,” he says, and then lets out a nervous chuckle. “I’m usually pretty good at not thinking about things anyway.”

“Except your soulmate.”

“What?” He gets even redder, somehow.

“You said you spend a lot of time thinking about your soulmate.”

“Oh, um, I guess. Yeah. But… I don’t mind thinking about… that.”

“No?” I say, which ends up sounding far too much like I sincerely want him to elaborate. (I do, but that’s beside the point.)

“I mean, I know you think it’s stupid, but I do think the idea of a soulmate is nice,” he says. “I just wish it could be easier to figure out who… um… _they_ are. I guess.”

I’m not imagining things, am I? He did glance at me right before he said, _“they,”_ right? Is he trying to say—

“Baz?” he adds, leaning forward on his elbows as he focuses on a seemingly random spot on the table between us. “How did you figure out… um…” He ruffles his hair some more—a rather endearing restless habit of his, unfortunately. “Well, like, how did you know you were gay?”

_What. The. Fuck._

“Are you telling me that you’re gay, Snow?” There’s no venom in my voice, but rather a weary compassion that is probably better suited to the situation—I’d hate to mock anyone for coming out to me, if that is indeed what’s happening. (And if it is the case, then I’ll deal with my own panic over the matter when the time comes.)

“No, I—I don’t think so, I just… I mean, I’ve been thinking that maybe… Maybe it’s possible my soulmate could be…”—he looks up at me and I stop breathing—“…a man, I guess.”

“Does that—” My voice hitches and I have to clear my throat. “Does that bother you?”

“No,” he says, a small smile reaching the corner of his mouth. “Depending who it is, I mean.”

This feels like the least mixed signal he’s ever given me, despite its subtlety. But I can’t…

“Simon, I—”

“Look, I know the _soulmate stuff_ isn’t really your deal, but… It’s the one thing I can’t stop thinking about lately and I just—” He bites his lip and his eyes dance over me before they land on mine again. “I think I could use a distraction.”

I stare at him for a second before downing as much of my remaining ale as I can. “Get your jacket,” I tell him as I reach for my own on the bench beside me. “We’re leaving.”

His eyes widen—I’m not sure if it’s shock or delight, or possibly an exciting combination of both—and he lifts his pint for one final swig before scooping up his own jacket and sliding out of the booth. “Baz?”

I look over at him as we stand and don our jackets. Every alarm in my head is going off at once; this an absolutely, disastrously, horrendously terrible idea. But then he grins at me, like the beautiful oaf he is, and everything gets drowned out.

“Your hair really does look good,” he says.

I untuck the very ends of my hair that got caught under the collar of my jacket and give him a playful smirk. “I know.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon intends to sleep with Baz as a distraction from thinking about... Baz. _Solid plan, buddy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who's been reading so far! I'm glad so many of you are enjoying the story, it means a lot to me.

**SIMON**

The tube ride to my flat isn’t a long one, but it feels like an eternity. The train is crowded—standing room only—and I end up pressed up against Baz on several occasions as more passengers board.

I haven’t been able to bring myself to make eye contact with him since we left the pub and he asked where I live. I apologize each time someone knocks me into him, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even acknowledge me. He just adjusts his grip on the handrail and continues staring off toward the darkened window.

I’m starting to wonder if this isn’t at all what I think it is.

I don’t know how to do this. How to… _hook up_ with someone, I guess. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted _someone_ , not like this. I want everything. I want anything. I want whatever he’s willing to give me.

I’m not really sure how to make that clear to him. I mean, I tried… But subtlety has never been my strong suit. What if he’s thinking something completely different? What if he doesn’t want—

I lurch forward when someone shoves past me to get to the door, and I brace myself with my hand against Baz’s chest so I don’t face-plant right into him. The suddenness of it seems to catch him off-guard, because he finally looks down his nose at me while his free arm wraps swiftly around my waist to steady me.

I mutter an apology, embarrassed, as I try to push off of him, but he firms up his hold on me and lowers his head to speak quietly in my ear.

“You’re swooning for me, Snow? I’m flattered.”

“Piss off,” I say with a nervous laugh, turning my face towards his. He’s smirking a little; not how he smirks when he’s being a condescending prick—which is sexy in its own way—but when he’s loosened up a little. I like him like this. Joking. Teasing. Softer around the edges. I want him like this all the time.

For a moment, I forget about the world around us. About the people crowding me against him and breathing down our necks. He’s so close now, I would barely have to move my head at all to…

His eyes widen suddenly, like he’s just remembered where we are, too, and he jerks his head back, turning to stare out the window again. (Or rather, stare _at_ the window, since there’s nothing to see beyond it but the darkness inside the tunnel.)

“I think we’re the next stop,” he says, a cool indifference returning to his voice as he lets his arm fall back to his side.

I nod, and we spend the remainder of the trip in silence. I don’t even apologize when I knock into him two more times. Neither of us says anything until we’ve exited the station, and we’re nearly at my block of flats.

“Shit,” I mutter, and reach for my mobile in my pocket.

“What?” Baz asks, though I can’t tell whether he sounds angry or concerned.

“Um, it’s nothing, I just…” I’m not good at texting while talking, so I finish composing my message first. “I forgot to check if my flatmates are home right now, so—”

“You have flatmates?”

“Uh, yeah? Of course I have flatmates.”

“Well, you never mentioned that.”

“Like I said, I for—” I stop abruptly when I get the notification that Penny has texted me back. “They’re out,” I add after reading her message. I glance over at Baz, who’s eyes are fixed to the pavement as we walk. “They’ve already left to visit Penny’s family for the weekend, so the coast is clear.”

He scoffs. “Embarrassed to have them see you bring home a bloke?”

“What? No, I—I just thought we’d… I mean… Nothing wrong with a bit of privacy, yeah?”

He doesn’t answer, so we continue silently towards my building. I’m not sure if I should be trying to make conversation or anything. Or maybe holding his hand. Wait, is that weird? We’re not _dating,_ so it’s probably weird. I don’t know the rules of this.

Baz hasn’t initiated any sort of contact with me—verbal or otherwise—since the tube ride, so it surprises me when I feel his hand on my back as I push the button for my floor in the lift. I almost don’t notice, through my jacket, until he slips it around my waist and pulls me against his side.

I turn to look at him, and find him staring straight ahead at the door of the lift. The metal is not quite shiny enough to make out our reflections clearly. Just foggy, blurred shapes in the colours of our clothing.

“Is this all right?” he asks quietly, tilting his head slightly my way, but still staring ahead.

“Er, yeah, it’s… Yeah.”

He squeezes me closer and runs his hand up and down my side a little. “I’m not very fond of _public displays_ ,” he says, like he’s answering a question I didn’t even ask. “But I really wanted to touch you.”

My face flushes; the lift feels unbearably hot, all of a sudden.

The lift opens and I step out into the corridor, Baz following closely behind. His hand is still on my back, until we hear a door opening down the hall, ahead of us, and he drops it, drifting away from me subtly. I offer a polite hello to my neighbour when she passes us and then fumble to slide my key into the lock on my door.

I shouldn’t be so nervous about this. I’m an adult. It’s not like I think people have to _save themselves_ for their soulmates or anything. I’ve slept with someone before. It’s not a big deal, right?

I mean, maybe it’s kind of a big deal, I guess. Because I really want to.

Once we’ve entered the flat, and removed our outerwear—Baz lines his boots up against the wall by the door, which is sort of adorable, considering I just kick mine off and leave them wherever they land—I realize I don’t know the procedure from this point on. Do we just… get down to it? Do we warm up first? What do I—

“Food?” I ask as soon as the idea strikes.

He looks at me once he’s finished hanging his jacket and scarf on a hook. (I just threw mine over a chair.) “Excuse me?”

“Um, do you want something to eat?” I offer, walking towards the kitchen. I want him to follow me. He does.

“I’m fine,” he says. He hovers in the doorway for a moment while I start opening cupboards.

“I could cook something.” I take a look in the fridge—not much there—and then turn to him, grinning. “I’m pretty good at it, actually.”

He’s leaning against the wall with his arms folded and a smile on his face. It’s faint, but it’s definitely not a smirk. “If you insist.”

“Cool,” I say as I take another look in the fridge, opening the vegetable crisper. I pull out half a head of broccoli and inspect it. “I could make like a stir-fry kind of thing, unless there’s something else you’d prefer.”

“Maybe.” His approach is so quiet that I don’t even realize he’s behind me until I feel his breath on the back of my neck and his hands on my hips. “What else are you offering?”

“Um—” I can’t even think right now, with his hands sliding up my sides, under my t-shirt. He presses against me and places a kiss on my neck, right behind my ear. “ _Fuck_.”

I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Well, it wasn’t even that _loud_. It was just… breathy. And embarrassing.

And I don’t want him to stop.

“Is that what you’re offering?” he says, his lips brushing against my skin as he speaks.

I feel his hands inch toward the front of my stomach with a cool but firm touch, and I lean back into him without thinking. I let out a small laugh—well, it could almost be called a giggle—as the refrigerator door shuts, and I place my hands over his. Not to stop him, just to… hold him, I guess.

“Is this still all right?” he asks, practically whispering in my ear. It makes me shiver.

I nod, because I don’t trust myself to speak.

He slowly kisses my neck in a few more spots before I turn around in his arms to face him, and his actions suddenly feel more urgent. He backs me up against the cupboard next to the fridge and one of his hands ends up in my hair, tugging slightly. I groan in approval.

I don’t know what to do with my own hands, though. They’re just sort of laying awkwardly against his chest, though I claw at his shirt a bit when I feel his tongue on my neck. “Baz, I—” I start to say, interrupting myself with another groan when he catches my earlobe with his teeth. _Why does that feel good?_ I laugh again, breathlessly. “I can’t cook with you all over me like this.”

“I don’t care,” he mutters, his other hand roaming up my side, causing my t-shirt to bunch awkwardly between us as it lifts. He’s good at this. At touching me.

I nod in understanding, perhaps a little too emphatically, and start to yank his shirt tails out of his trousers because I think I need to touch him, too. Well, no, _need_ isn’t the word. I just _really fucking want to_.

I’m a bit clumsy at this, my elbow knocking into his arm as I try to undo his buttons from the bottom up. It probably wasn’t the best plan of attack, I realize once I reach the top, where his tie is still firmly secured around his neck. He laughs, this time, and I feel his breath warm on the side of my face as I try to unknot this thing.

He takes a step back to finish untying it himself, but I close in on him quickly, pushing him up against the opposite wall. I fumble with the final button of his shirt and spread it open, revealing the expanse of warm brown skin on his chest, with a small patch of hair in the middle. I can’t resist the urge to run my fingers over it as he pulls my hips closer. I don’t think I’ve ever given any thought to whether or not a man’s chest hair could be sexy—I don’t even have any yet—but I feel confident now declaring that yes, it can.

I lower my head and press my lips to his chest, just above that spot, and leave a trail of light kisses up to his collarbone while run my hands down his chest to the sides of his waist, causing him to arch into me when I accidentally brush past his nipples.

I lift my head quickly to look him in the eye. “Sorry, was that—”

“No, no, it’s—it’s good,” he says, his voice somewhat less cocky now that he’s not the one in charge. “I like it.”

“Yeah?” I smile as I slide my hands back up his ribcage and play with him a little. It had never occurred to me that he might like this sort of thing, since it doesn’t have the same effect on me. Knowing that there’s probably a lot to learn about him this way is kind of exciting, though.

His breath shakes as he tilts his head back against the wall, gripping my sides firmly with both hands, and I lean in to kiss his neck, right next to his Adam’s apple. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this, I realize, when I find myself comparing the actual experience to my prior expectations. This is even better, though.

I never expected him to whine like this, for one thing.

“Simon,” he says, but it comes out strained.

I don’t remove my mouth from him to respond. “Hmm?”

He reaches up and grabs my hair again, this time tugging just hard enough to pull my head back, and I stare up at him, dumbfounded. “Show me your bedroom,” he says sternly.

“Now?” I ask, practically squeaking. Somehow the idea of taking this horizontal is at once thrilling and terrifying.

“I’d rather not have my way with you next to a sink full your dirty breakfast dishes.”

I glance over at the sink—which is not as bad as it usually is when it’s my turn to wash—and nod in agreement. “Good point,” I say before taking his hand and dragging him out of the tiny kitchen, through the cramped living room, and into the mess that is my bedroom. _Shit_.

Hardly anyone ever has to see my room, so I don’t tend to worry about the state of it most of the time. Now I wish I had, at least today, as Baz eyes the contents of the room with one eyebrow up. He’s gone judgmental again.

“Did some sort of natural disaster occur in here, Snow?” he asks, nudging a pile of laundry on the floor with his toe, and then recoiling as if he just realized it might be contaminated.

“Those are clean,” I assure him.

“Then why are they on the floor?”

I shrug. “I dunno, it’s where I keep them, I guess.”

“You’re disgusting.” He looks me up and down, scowling, and then reaches out to grab the front of my shirt and pull me closer. “And far too overdressed.”

“Er, right, yeah,” I say, and help him lift my t-shirt over my head. I ball it up in my hands and throw it towards the pile of dirty laundry on the other side of the room, but he doesn’t even question it.

He removes his own shirt, too, though he takes the time to fold it in half and drape it over the back of my desk chair, along with his tie, before advancing on me, nudging me towards my bed. I didn’t make the bed this morning, either, so shove the lump of blankets to one side before having a seat at the edge.

Baz sits next to me, when I pull him by the arm to do so, but it occurs to me that this might a somewhat juvenile place to start, considering what happened in the kitchen. _How do they do this in films?_ Should one of us be straddling the other by now? Should our trousers be off yet? At what point does that happen? Am I doing this completely wrong—

When he dips his head and kisses my shoulder, letting his hand rest on the top of my thigh, I try not to think about it too hard. I just let myself lean into him as well, chasing how good it feels.

I angle myself towards him as his lips travel up to my neck, and I reach up to hold the back of his head, my fingers sliding through his hair. It’s also not quite how I imagined it, though apparently I’d imagined it quite a bit, too. It feels slightly coated—probably from whatever he uses to keep it swept back for work—but still soft.

As soon as he approaches my jawline, I draw my head back to look at him. He’s so fucking beautiful like this, his hair even more mussed than before, and his eyelids heavy with intoxication. He’s not _drunk_ , though, I know that much. This is all me. I did this to him.

I want to do so much more to him.

The corner of his mouth twitches with the hint of a smile as his eyes focus in on something about my face, and he pushes forward slightly to place a gentle kiss on my cheek. I’m pretty sure I’ve got a mole there.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he whispers, so quiet I almost don’t hear him.

“Hm?” I reply, too busy enjoying the feel of his hair between my fingers to register what he’s trying to say.

“Mm, nothing. Forget I said anything.”

I turn my head to him, just barely, but we’re close enough now that my nose bumps into his. I’ve wanted to do this for a long time, too. I’ve spent far too much time thinking about this over the past few weeks. About kissing him. I don’t even care if we have a Spark or not, I decided. I still want this. Him. However I can.

“Simon,” he says, lowering his head before I can reach his lips with mine. “I don’t… I’d rather not…”

_He’d rather not?_

My stomach starts to collapse in on itself and pull back from him, letting my hand drop from his hair. “Oh,” is all I can manage to say.

“Wait, Simon, I—I don’t mean—” He lifts his hand to clasp the far side of my face and turn my head back towards him, pressing his own face against the closer side of mine. “I do still want to… to do _this_ ,” he says, and I can feel his other hand, the one that had been pressing into the mattress behind me, rest on my lower back. “I just… I don’t kiss on the lips.”

“Oh,” I repeat.

He sighs and leans his forehead against mine. “It just complicates things, doesn’t it? It’s better not to know if we’re…” He swallows, like it’s hard for him to even say the word in this context. “… _soulmates_. Don’t you think?”

I nod again, although I don’t completely understand. It doesn’t matter, anyway. He wants this, too. He said so himself. I can give him what he wants.

I kiss him lightly on the cheek, the way he did before, and I feel him exhale in relief. Like he’d been worried how I would react. Like he wasn’t sure if I’d still want any of this. But I definitely do.

I place another kiss further up, right on his pronounced cheek bone, before clasping his head with both hands and turning his face so I can kiss the other side. If I can’t kiss his lips, I’m going to kiss absolutely everything else. The creases at the outer corners of his eyes. The soft baby hairs at his widow’s peak. The arches of his full, defined brows.

“Simon,” he says, laughing out a puff of air as I kiss the bridge of his nose. “What are you doing?”

“Enjoying this.” I laugh, as well, and then pull back to scrutinize his expression and make sure we’re on the same page. “Are you?”

“Yeah, it’s nice.” His voice is so low, like he’s afraid of someone overhearing that he enjoys being adored. _The horror._

I smile at him and trace my finger down his long nose, delicately, and appreciate the faint flush to his cheeks. I linger over the spot near the end where it bends slightly, which gives him a distinctive look.

“It happened in Year Ten,” he says softly, though I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Broke my nose,” he adds, probably noticing the confusion on my face. “Wiped out during football practice.”

“It suits you.”

He chuckles a little. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It looks good, I dunno,” I say, leaning in to kiss his nose again, right at that spot. “Though I bet everything looks good on you.”

He looks away shyly, but I lift his face towards mine again, since I’m nowhere near done with him.

“You’re really lovely, you know,” I tell him as my eyes flit around his features, trying to find my next target. _I wonder if his cupid’s bow would be too close to his lips—_

And then _he_ kisses _me_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That line is _never_ going to get old for me. #sorrynotsorry


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boom.

**BAZ**

It’s an intense rush, the feeling that hits me, that nearly knocks me back. Like a current of electricity thrumming through me, pulsating, covering my arms in gooseflesh. I feel infinitely tiny and infinitely giant all at once—no, not at once. Alternating rapidly, like a flickering light. My chest can’t decide whether to implode on itself or burst outward in a flash of fire and lightning.

I think we’re both going to die if I don’t stop. But I can’t stop. It’s too good. I feel utterly consumed.

But as quickly as it came, it’s gone, and I jerk my head back to stare in disbelief at Snow. His mouth is hanging open—to be fair, so is mine—and the reality of the situation sinks in.

I just kissed him.

“ _Jesus Fucking Christ!_ ” I spring to my feet and run my hands through my hair, as if smoothing it out will somehow undo any of this. I pace a couple times in the small area of the floor without any clothes strewn about, and turn to glare at Simon again, who still looks gobsmacked. “What the fuck did you do?”

“What did _I_ do?” he says, his shock swiftly transitioning to indignation. “You kissed _me_ , remember?”

“Not that, I mean the—” I stop myself before I say it. I can’t call it that. “Did you put something in my drink at the pub?”

“ _What?_ ” He stands, clearly alarmed by my accusation, but I yank my arm away from him when he reaches for my wrist. “What are you talking about?”

I brush him off and head over to his desk and pick up my shirt, buttoning it quickly once I throw it on.

“Baz,” he says, and grabs the open cuff of my sleeve. I yank that away from him, too. “Please, just, what’s going on?”

“Was this all some kind of trick?” I hiss, even though I’m quite positive he had nothing to do with it.

That was nothing like a fake.

“A trick for what?” He throws his arms in the air, like he’s absolutely baffled. And, frankly, I don’t blame him.

I ball my tie up in my fist and storm out of the room. I can’t stay here.

“Baz, I didn’t do anything!” Snow follows me through his flat to the front door, where I, once again, wish I had slide-on boots for making a quick getaway. “Maybe it wasn’t even a… Spark…” he adds. “It could have been static, or, you know, I had my mobile in my pocket, and maybe—”

“Just—” I cut in angrily, swiping my jacket from the hook and swinging it over my shoulders. I huff and drop some of the bite from my voice, but not from my words. “Stay the hell away from me.”

“What? Baz, I—”

I’m out the door before he can finish his thought, and I hurry towards the exit sign for the stairwell, since waiting for the lift could give him a chance to catch up. And he would, the imbecile.

It’s lucky I don’t miss a step and tumble down an entire flight of them, with the way my feet are flying. I’m not even aware of anything around me, just the memory of that current in my veins that makes me want to run back to him, or punch the wall. Neither seem like good options, in the long run.

Snow and I can’t be soulmates. It’s just not possible.

I could never be with someone like him, anyway. It was a bad idea to think I could do it, even just for one night. He always makes me feel… exposed, anyway. Like a frayed wire. I’m constantly surprising myself around him, and it’s rather unsettling. I can’t even imagine trying to spend my life that way—I’d lose all sense of myself.

More importantly, he shouldn’t get stuck with someone like me. Kindness pours out of him, like it costs him nothing, and he deserves someone who can offer him the same. Someone who will lightly caress every inch of his face, like he’s a thing of beauty, a treasure. Make him feel like he means the world to someone. Like he _is_ the world to someone.

That someone isn’t me. It can’t be.

If Simon was my world, I don’t think I could survive. It’d be like crashing into the sun.

The cool air outside is refreshing after the warmth of his flat—of his embrace—and it soothes the growing ache in my head slightly. (Migraine is a rare but not unheard of side-effect of a Spark, but this could be a coincidence.) Soon, the chill becomes unpleasant, however, as cold things are wont to do.

I should know.

* * *

**SIMON**

When I get to Baz’s cubicle, he’s not there. He left a note stuck to his monitor with a brief explanation of the issue with his computer, and then buggered off. He’s been doing that a lot lately.

He’ll leave rooms when I enter them. He’ll walk faster when I try to approach him. I’ve given up trying to make any sort of contact with him, actually. But he still runs away at the sight of me.

I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t what I thought. It was just some weird static electricity thing that happened when we kissed, completely by coincidence. Static that made my extremities buzz and my heart feel like it was being squeezed and stretched in all directions. But I couldn’t deny the evidence. Or the fact that every love song I’d ever heard suddenly made sense to me.

I felt complete for once, like a closed circuit. And for the briefest moment, I believed this was what I was meant to do. This was where I was meant to be. I didn’t like Baz _because_ we had a Spark; it felt more like we had a Spark because I liked him. As if I made it happen by wanting it, more than I even knew.

_“What the fuck did you do?”_

My stomach churns every time I remember the way he spoke to me after it happened. He was so disgusted. So horrified. He thought it was my fault.

Maybe it was my fault.

I’ve never heard of anyone causing a Spark by sheer force of will, especially a subconscious will. But that has to be the case. It has to be a fluke. Baz can’t be my soulmate, or else…

I can’t stand to think of the alternative. The idea that I somehow conjured a false Spark that scared him away is a crushing thought, but I don’t know how I’d live with the only other explanation: that Baz _really is_ my soulmate.

If Baz really is my soulmate, then my soulmate doesn’t want me.

I try not to think about it.

I solve the issue with his computer quickly—it’s simple enough, I could have emailed him the instructions to do it himself, but a small part of me thought that he might actually be here this time, somehow. I consider the possibility of loitering until he returns, but it’s nearly lunch time and he probably won’t be back for another hour at least. (I don’t even know what I would say to him.)

His workspace makes me feel uneasy, anyway. It’s so tidy and organized—nothing like mine—and lacking any hint of his personality. I asked him about it once and he said that it is his personality, but I know that’s not true. He pretends he doesn’t like things. Acts like he doesn’t care about art or music or films—until I have an opinion on something, and then he very passionately feels the need to tell me how I’m absolutely wrong. (Sometimes I say something stupid on purpose, just to get him going.)

I shouldn’t miss that. But I do.

I haven’t had lunch with him and Trixie in weeks, now. No pub nights. No gay bars. Nothing.

Trixie did invite me for a coffee chat a few days after Baz told me to _stay the hell away_ from him. Apparently Baz hadn’t told her about any of it. She’d managed to piece together the gist of it, though; a casual hookup gone wrong.

“This is why you don’t have sex with friends,” she said to me. “And why you do as I say, not as I’ve done.”

I told her how we didn’t even get that far. I hesitated about mentioning the Spark at first, but I thought she might have some insight for me. Penny and Micah were not super helpful, despite their good intentions, because they kept twisting Baz into the villain. They don’t know him like I do, though. (They also don’t know that the whole thing was my idea; I wasn’t sure how to explain that part.)

Trixie took a moment to process this before responding. “It sucks,” she said, and for a second, I thought that was all she was going to say. But she went on, unprompted. “In a world that’s obsessed with soulmates, it’s really tough to be without one. I’ve only been with Keris for four years; I didn’t meet her until I was twenty-eight. Almost all my friends had found their soulmates already. I thought I was broken.

“And I know it’s not exactly the same as your situation; I’m not trying to claim anything like that,” she continued. “But before I met her, I made peace with the fact that I might not end up with my soulmate. That our paths might never cross. And that was okay. I was still me. I didn’t need another person to make me whole.

“Knowing that I didn’t _need_ anyone, it gave me the freedom to seek out what I _wanted_. I want to be with Keris, soulmates or not.”

It took me a while to let it all sink in. I spent the next few days trying to see Baz’s rejection as a good thing for me. I know who my soulmate is, so I no longer have to wonder. And he doesn’t want to be with me, so I’m not trapped into a relationship by some external force. I don’t feel like I _have_ to be with him, by necessity. I have the freedom to seek out what I want.

But I want _him_.

I crumple the note he left on his computer and bin it before I leave, but I nearly crash into him on my way out of his cubicle. He looks about as startled as I am, though his expression quickly turns to ice.

“I, uh, I fixed the thing,” I say, pointing behind me with my thumb.

He glares at me for another second and then turns sideways to edge past me into his office, like he’s afraid to make physical contact. Like I’m contagious. Like I repulse him. Like he regrets ever putting his hands on me.

_“I really wanted to touch you.”_

I don’t believe anything anymore.

* * *

**BAZ**

Snow’s everywhere.

I can’t seem to go a day without seeing him, even on weekends. He doesn’t always see me, thankfully, but I’ve had to make a few quick and awkward exits from cafés and shops— _since when does he shop at Waitrose, anyway?_ —in order to avoid him.

I’ve tried just ignoring him, especially around the office, but it’s impossible not to look at him when he’s _right there_. Even though it kills me a little every time. Keeping my distance, I can still see that his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. It’s unbearable to watch. So it’s better for me to avoid him entirely.

Of course, it means I’m constantly on edge. Every head of golden brown curls I see triggers my fight or flight response, at least for a second. Usually my heart rate settles down once I register that it’s not him, but I don’t know how long I can go on like this. Will I spend the rest of my life with shame gnawing at my insides, flaring up whenever I spot a pair of blue eyes or a set of freckled forearms?

Not to mention I haven’t been able to so much as glance at my Free Souls account in weeks. Though, to be fair, I stopped checking it well before The Incident. I haven’t even opened the app since before my birthday.

Trix thinks I’m being ridiculous, and has not been afraid to let me know. Repeatedly. (I almost can’t believe that Snow told her everything, but then again, he’s Snow. _Oaf_.) She said I needed to get over myself—though she added, _“and get under Simon,”_ after that, so I don’t take her advice too seriously.

“Look, I’m not saying you _have to_ be with him,” she said the other day. “But it’s clear you’re arse over tit for him, and I think he’s rather taken with you, too.”

“That’s because he’s an idiot,” I argued. “Doesn’t know what’s good for him.”

“You don’t think you’d be good for him?”

I quickly changed the subject to our monthly reports, because I had the sinking feeling that she was going to start hurling compliments at me, and I don’t have the constitution for such a thing, even on the best of days.

Today’s been the worst so far, though. I think I had nearly a dozen Snow sightings, including two up close run-ins, with a smattering of across-the-room eye contact. It was enough to do my head in and make it nearly impossible to concentrate on my work at all.

I opt to stay a bit late to finish—it’s easier to calm down and focus when I know there’s no risk of hearing his voice from a neighbouring cubicle—and shut everything down for the night before heading to the lift. A member of the cleaning staff is already waiting for it, but she lets me in first when the doors open, since she has a cart of supplies with her.

She only takes the lift one floor down, and bids me a good evening before exiting. I let myself lean against the back wall, wishing I could just be home already, when I hear someone call out, “Hold the lift!”

 _Fuck_.

I lunge forward to the panel of buttons when I recognize the voice, but I don’t hit the “close door” button until it’s too late. The doors are already closing, anyway, but Snow’s managed to slip in between them, nearly crashing into the far wall of the lift by barrelling in.

“Cheers, mate,” he says as he catches his balance. And then he sees me. “Oh, er, hey, I—Um…”

I don’t think I could say anything even if I wanted to. My head is screaming and I just need to _get out_. I press down hard on the “open door” button several times, but we’ve already started moving—I assume we’re between floors.

“Fuck!” I say it out loud this time, and slam my palm against the panel.

“What are you doing?” he asks, taking a step towards me.

I hold my hand up to stop him coming any closer. “I told you to stay away.”

I can’t bear to to look at him again, so I just keep pushing buttons. I don’t care which floor it stops at. But I can’t stand here and pretend that this is fine.

The lift grinds to a halt, instead of slowing gradually, and we both nearly topple from the jolt. I stare at the doors, fixed shut. The doors aren’t opening and the lift isn’t moving. The floor indicator reads “ERR” instead of a number. I try punching all of the buttons out of desperation, muttering a few choice words under my breath, even though I know none of this will help. Still, I can’t bring myself to say it. (If I don’t say it, it can’t be real, right?)

“Baz,” Snow says slowly, and I cringe before he even finishes the thought. “I think we’re stuck.”

 _Fucking shit_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Captain Obvious.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When there's nowhere to run, all that's left to do is talk. Or something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GAHHH!! The end is here! Wow. I'd like to offer a bajillion thank yous to everyone who's been reading and enjoying this fic, it's been great hearing from you. I may have had several emotional trips along the way. What a ride. 😅

**SIMON**

Apparently it’s going to be a while before anyone can come get us. Baz spent a good ten minutes on the phone, trying to explain how that was unacceptable, but there didn’t seem to be much he could do about it.

It’s another ten minutes before either of us speaks again, though surprisingly I’m not the first.

“What are you even doing here so late?” Baz asks, scowling at me from where he’s tucked himself into a corner of the lift, arms folded across his chest. I’m not an expert on body language, but I can tell this is no warm welcome from him.

“I had to wait until people were gone to start running updates and—And it doesn’t matter why I’m here,” I reply, standing a little straighter when I realize I shouldn’t be the one on trial here. “Why did _you_ smash all the buttons when you saw me?”

“I _panicked_ ,” he snaps, which is far more up front than I expected from him. I believe him, though, because he wouldn’t be letting on that he was anything other than _calm, cool, and collected_ if he weren’t bricking it right now.

“Yeah, well, next time don’t take it out on company property.” I try to make my words sound condescending, but I’m pretty sure I come across like a whiny child, threatening to tell on him to the teacher.

I’m angry, though. Angry that he’d rather jump out of a moving lift than spend a single minute with me. Angry that he’s been avoiding me at all costs for weeks, now. Not only does he have no interest in being my soulmate, apparently he has no interest in being my friend at all.

I ball my hands into fists at my sides as he casts his eyes down at the floor between us, not even acknowledging my presence anymore. “And what have you got to be so _panicked_ about, anyway, huh?” I add, raising my voice unintentionally. “You’re the one who ran out and humiliated me, so I should be the one who can’t stand to look at you. Not the other way around!”

He mutters something, but it sounds like he makes some flippant comment about _“getting off.”_

“What did you say?” I take a large step towards him and he jerks his head up to look at me, surprised by the sudden movement.

He stares at me icily. “I said that you’re better off this way.”

“Meaning?” I ask with a skeptical frown.

“Nothing,” he says, muttering some more as he lowers his head again.

I growl and pull on my hair in frustration—Penny says I shouldn’t do that, but I can’t help it; it keeps me from blowing up at people, anyhow—as I start to pace back and forth across the lift. I don’t normally have trouble in cramped places like this, but it’s much too small a space for me to properly vent.

“Would you _stop_?” Baz adds, pressing his fingertips into his temples, eyes closed. As if my pacing and fuming silently is giving him a headache. As if he’s the only one allowed to be upset by any of this.

I’ve been trying not to think about it for weeks, but it spills out of me when I snap. “ _Why am I not good enough?_ ”

“For what?” he asks wearily, without so much as a glance at me.

“For _you_!”

That gets his attention. “I never said you weren’t good enough—”

“Well, the way you sprinted from my flat said it pretty clear—”

“That wasn’t about you,” he says, like he thinks I’m an idiot for thinking otherwise.

“How was that not about me?” I’m practically shouting now. (Good thing there’s hardly anyone left in the building.) “We had a Spark and you ran off, because the idea of being stuck with me is so unbearable—”

“I think you’re confused about what happened, Snow.”

“I didn’t imagine it, Baz! You were there; you know what happened!”

“So what?” he hisses, eyes narrowed, as he pushes himself out from the wall to close half the distance between us. “Even if that was a—Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s all bullshit anyway. Soulmates, eternal love, fate. It means nothing. I don’t owe you _anything_.”

“I—I don’t—You can’t just—Why are you—What the fuck is—” I struggle to spit out so much as a single sentence, pulling my hair with both hands to keep myself from punching something. Or someone.

Not that I want to hit him, exactly.

“Jesus Christ,” he grumbles, running a hand back through is own hair smoothly—no pulling whatsoever. “Will you chill the fuck out? I swear, one kiss, and you think the world is upside down.”

I give him a small shove, causing him to stumble back a little, startled, and then push him against the wall.

“Two kisses,” I say. And I take him by the back of his neck.

**BAZ**

There’s definitely no Spark this time.

But Simon’s mouth is warm on mine, and he’s got both hands around the back of my neck as he presses his whole body into me. My head is swimming with the scent, the taste, the feel of him, and there’s a chance my knees would buckle if he weren’t holding me firmly against the wall.

I don’t even realize right away that I’m holding one of his wrists, loosely, or that my other hand is somehow resting on his hip. I almost consider pushing him away, but when I feel his tongue on mine I involuntarily hum in approval, which spurs him on. This is nothing like a Spark, real or fake, but it sets my insides on fire nonetheless.

“Simon,” I say quietly, once he pauses for a breather, his hands sliding around in my hair. “Why did you…”

“I needed to do something or I was gonna sock you,” he replies with a faint laugh, like the anger I could see welling up inside him has finally been released. “I like this better than fighting, though.”

So do I.

But I take hold of his shoulders and urge him back a step. “This isn’t going to work.”

“What isn’t?”

“Just because we’re—” The word catches in my throat, yet again, and I cough a little.

“We’re _soulmates_ , Baz,” he says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. He’s still holding the sides of my neck. “It won’t kill you to admit it.”

“Like I said before,” I continue, choosing to ignore his commentary, “we don’t owe each other anything. There’s no law binding us together forever because of it.”

His hands drop to my chest and mine slip down a bit from his shoulders as well. “So?”

“So, we’re under no obligation to pretend to be happy boyfriends—”

“I’m not talking about an obligation, all right?” he growls, grasping the lapels of my trench coat in a way that is at once mildly threatening and oddly arousing. “No obligation, no pretending, nobody _owing_ anyone. The only reason we should be together is if we _want_ to. And I want to. I want… this.”

He pulls me closer but I push back on his upper arms to keep him at a distance.

“What you want,” I say bitterly, as a fresh wave of years-old shame creeps up my spine, “is a distraction. You said so yourself.”

“That was just—” He stops as soon as I grab his wrists again, this time to force him to let go of me—which he does without a fight. Only a look of hurt and confusion. “Baz—”

“You want to get off, but then what, hm?” I let go of his arms with another small shove. “You think there’s something after that, but there’s not.”

More hurt. More confusion. _What am I doing?_

“I don’t have anything else for you!” I snap, before he has a chance to respond. His sad puppy dog eyes are saying enough as it is. They say I’m a monster. But it’s better this way.

“I—I don’t under—”

“I’m nobody’s _happily ever after_ , Snow. Not even yours.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You. Don’t. Want. Me,” I snarl, emphasizing each word to get my point across.

“But I do, Baz, I’m telling you—”

“You don’t even know me! You can’t—” I scrub my hands over my face and groan in frustration. This is not how _Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch_ behaves in public. I need to end this now.

I take a deep, steadying breath as I let my hands fall from my face and wrap my arms around myself. “It’s not you,” I say, nearly whispering, with my head lowered in resignation. “I’m the one who’s not… enough.”

“Who told you that?” he asks after a moment. His voice isn’t soft or sympathetic; he’s bristling, but showing restraint.

I look up at meet his eyes, though I can’t read his expression. He’s still hurt and confused, I think, but there’s something else. Something I don’t recognize. I shake my head, because I don’t know what to say.

Nobody _told_ me that. Nobody had to tell me.

“Baz—” He starts to reach one hand towards me, but pulls it back before he gets too close. He’s afraid to touch me now. _Brilliant_.

“People aren’t born thinking they aren’t _enough_ ,” he says as he lets his arm fall back at his side. “Somebody made you believe that, and I—I think it’s bullshit.”

I shake my head a couple more times, but part of me knows he’s right. The little voice in my head that agrees with Trix; the voice that tells me to get over myself and just do something that’ll make me happy. To stop distracting myself all the time. To let myself have what I want.

I’ve gotten good at stamping that voice out, though.

“Look, Baz—” Snow begins quietly, though he’s cut off when the lift jerks slightly. It jostles him a bit, and he ends up holding my arms to steady himself. He lets go once he realizes what he’s done, but I uncross my arms and take his hands in mine as the lift starts to move again.

It doesn’t get far before slowing to a stop again, but this time the doors open.

“C’mon.” Snow squeezes my hands and leads me out of the lift—we’re not on the ground level, but at this point I’d rather take the stairs, anyhow. “I think you could use a cuppa.”

* * *

**SIMON**

I’ve never been very good with words.

I don’t know what to say now, as I sit next to Baz on his sofa, cradling a mug of tea in my hands.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” I tell him, once the silence feels unbearable. That probably wasn’t the right thing to say, though. But what am I supposed to say, after what he’s told me? How do I make this better?

“It’s my own fault, anyway,” he says, his head hanging low over the mug held in his lap. “I was stupid enough to get fooled by that; I should have known better—”

“It _wasn’t_ your fault, Baz,” I say seriously. “I didn’t even know that was a thing until you just told me! How were you supposed to know at eighteen?”

“It wasn’t anything like a real Spark, though… For the most part.”

“Yeah, but how would you have— _Oh_.” The realization makes my stomach drop, and I push a hand through my hair. “Our… Our Spark, it—It reminded you of the thing, didn’t it?”

“Not at first,” he says. “It was nice, actually. It felt… right. But I… I don’t know.” He leans further forward and presses the heel of his hand into his forehead. “I couldn’t help but think about it, anyway.”

“Can—Can I ask… Why did you kiss me that night?”

He turns to face me—he looks worried and embarrassed—and I place a comforting hand on his forearm.

“I mean, I was glad you did,” I assure him. “But I… I thought you didn’t want to.”

“I did want to.” His eyes briefly flicker down to my mouth, and I wonder if he wants to now, too. “I’d wanted to for longer than I cared to admit, even to myself…”

“Did you…” I say, pausing to steel myself for my next question. “Did you really think I’d tricked you?”

He shakes his head and drops his gaze to his tea again. “Not really. I just couldn’t…”

“I mean, I sort of get where you’re coming from,” I add, looking down at my tea as well. “It’s awful to think… Well, to think your soulmate doesn’t want you. I can see why you might not trust people after that.”

“I—I didn’t mean to make you think—I shouldn’t have done that…”

He pushes his hand against the side of his head so hard that his arm starts to shake, so I set down my mug on the table in front of us and gently take hold of his wrist to make him ease up. He seems surprised by it, but he lets me take his hand anyway, even interlacing his fingers with mine.

“Honestly, I don’t care if we’re soulmates or not; I want to be with you anyway,” I say as I give his hand a squeeze. “So all that matters is what you want, Baz.”

He squeezes my hand in return, but only for a second, before he lets his go slack. “I… I can’t promise you forever, Simon,” he says.

“I’m not asking for _forever_.” I lean towards him and rest my chin on his shoulder. “But we can try for _now_ , can’t we?”

* * *

**BAZ**

“What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” I ask as I take a seat and set down my glass next to his.

He looks up from the drinks in front of him and gives me a sly smile. “I’m meeting some friends,” he says. “Celebrating my birthday.”

“Oh yeah?” I raise an eyebrow at him. “Awfully rude of them to leave you waiting like this. On your birthday.”

“Well, tomorrow’s my birthday, actually.”

“Still…”

“What can I say?” he says with a shrug. “They’re dicks.”

I can’t help but chuckle at the grin on his face. “Sounds like it,” I say, resting my elbow on the table as I lean towards him. “How about you and I take this somewhere else? Leave your friends waiting, instead.”

“Hmm.” He pinches his lips together. “I’m not sure my boyfriend would appreciate that,” he says, and smiles again, blinking innocently at me.

“Well, I thought he was a dick, anyway.” I laugh and slip my arm over the back of his chair.

He laughs, too, before taking a sip of his drink, and I lean closer until my lips are nearly touching his ear.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” I murmur, and I can sense him shiver when my breath hits his neck.

“My boyfriend’s definitely not going to like that,” he replies, lowering his voice and angling his face towards me.

“I can guarantee you, he’ll be quite pleased with the idea,” I say with a grin, and then place a small kiss on a mole just below his ear, eliciting an appreciative sigh.

“Simon!”

I lift my head at the sound of Trixie’s voice, as she and Keris make their way to our table to offer Snow birthday hugs. I can see he looks a bit flushed, and while I’d like to chalk that up to my irresistible seduction techniques— _a man can dream, can’t he?_ —I’m sure it has more to do with the fact that we were caught red-handed, in the middle of a gay bar, snogging. (Almost.)

Keris goes to order drinks while Trix takes her seat with us, and I sit up straighter in mine, since draping myself over Snow is not the most dignified way to spend the evening here—though it sounds far more enjoyable than keeping a respectable distance like this.

It’s been nice, these past couple months. Getting to know each other better. Getting comfortable. Taking our time.

Most soulmates would be engaged by now. It’s not uncommon for couples to have their wedding on the first anniversary of their Spark. But I don’t think that’s a day I’d like to commemorate, personally.

We’ve discussed it, and we probably aren’t going to get married at all. Snow said something about how _“trusting a dog on a leash to stay by your side isn’t really trust,”_ and I said that it was a pretty disturbing comparison, but he just shrugged.

“This way we always have a choice,” he told me. “We choose each other every day, every minute. We stay together because we want to.”

I was afraid to ask what would happen if one day we don’t choose each other anymore, but he can usually tell when I’m stressed out about something, and almost always manages to coax it out of me. So I asked.

“Does it matter?” he answered. “All we have right now is _now_ , anyway.”

I often ground myself through him, through his ability to stay present in the moment. I spend so much of my life living in past regrets and future worries, it’s nice having something to keep me here and now, once in a while.

As soon as Keris returns with their drinks, Trix holds hers up to make a toast.

“To the birthday boy!” she says, glaring at each of us until we raise our glasses as well. “You made it another year around the sun, Simon. Congrats.”

“Is that it?” he asks incredulously as the rest of us clink our glasses. “Baz got like a whole speech on his birthday.”

“That’s because I knew he would hate it,” she adds, flashing me a grin. I sneer at her, but we both know I’m not serious.

“I was hoping for more of a toast, I guess.” He pouts a little before taking another sip of his drink.

“Get Baz to do it then,” Keris suggests, waving her hand towards me. It’s the hand with her glass in it, so a bit sloshes out. “He’s the one shagging you.”

“You know I’m not one for public speaking,” I say, trying to retain my composure, though I can see Snow growing redder behind his glass again.

“Not even to wish your boyfriend a happy birthday?” Trix asks. She tut-tuts at me mockingly.

“Since when am I that sentimental?” I glance over at Snow, who looks starved for affection whenever anyone’s not cooing over him. “Besides, _technically_ , it’s not his birthday until tomorrow.”

He pouts, so I reach for his hand, making a show of being reluctant about it, and lean towards him again. Once I’m close enough to whisper in his ear, I grab him around the other side of his neck with my free hand and turn his face to mine so I can kiss him, square on the lips. (I can hear Keris _whoop_ in the background.)

“Happy birthday, love,” I tell him quietly, watching the stunned smile on his face spread.

I choose him today. I choose him this minute.

He said that all we have right now is now, but I don’t think that’s true. I have something else right now, too.

I have him.

_I choose you, Simon. And you’re mine right now._

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to know about my WIPs and other random, vaguely Carry On or fanfic-related things I like to talk about, you can find me on tumblr as [@f-ing-ruthless-baz](https://f-ing-ruthless-baz.tumblr.com)!


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